


Talking Through A Layer Of Confusion

by tattooeddevil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amulet Fic, Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Voicemail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooeddevil/pseuds/tattooeddevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the apocalypse so near, Sam can't keep everything they swept under the rug from crushing him. Getting drunk always worked for Dean, so why does it blow up in Sam's face now? Everything he kept hidden comes to the surface; literally, amulet and voicemail and all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talking Through A Layer Of Confusion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladygreytowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygreytowers/gifts).



******

Sam woke with a shock, a scream dying on his lips as he sat up in the bed and looked around frantically. It was pitch black, the sound of cars passing by the Motel 6 they were staying in filtering through the thin walls, his brother snoring in the other bed.

He reached for his phone on the bedside table and, when it lit up, the clock said it was 3:15 am. Sam was wide awake, he didn’t remember what the nightmare was about but he wasn’t getting any more sleep like this. Not when his heart was pounding so loud he was afraid it would wake Dean up, and the sweat was running down his back in hot rivulets.

His duffle bag was lying at the foot of his bed and he fumbled for it in the dark, not wanting to turn on the light or even dare to use his phone as a light and wake Dean. He couldn’t really face Dean, not after what had happened with Brady earlier and what Sam had found out about Azazel and Jessica. Dean wanted to talk about it, but Sam had shut him down. He didn’t feel like talking, about anything, especially not to Dean. Not when Dean was gonna leave him as soon as the whole apocalypse business was over anyway.

It took some blind searching, but Sam managed to find a shirt and a pair of jeans and socks, and he made his way to the bathroom. He flipped the light on and, without looking at himself in the mirror, started dressing. He stepped into his jeans, pulled them up, and buttoned them. When he reached into his pockets to straighten them, his fingers bumped into something hard and cold and Sam froze.

He had forgotten all about the amulet.

Sam carefully pulled the string and the amulet from his pocket and stared at it. The string was a little washed out because he’d forgotten to take it out of the jeans before washing them, but the amulet itself was as shiny and smooth as it ever had been. Dean’s amulet; the one Sam had given him when they were kids, the one that told them where God was - or wasn’t, as was the case - the one Dean had thrown away like a useless object that meant nothing to him but disappointment and betrayal. Just like Sam.

And Dean was gonna throw him away too, as soon as he didn’t need Sam anymore either. Dean didn’t care about Sam, hadn’t cared for a long time. No matter what Sam said or did to try and make it right, Dean would always think of him as a monster, a freak, a worthless little brother who only lied to him and had chosen a demon over him. In Dean’s own words, a blood-sucking freak, a vampire.

Sam didn’t need to hear the voicemail message to hear Dean’s words.

Suddenly, he couldn’t look at the amulet anymore. He stuffed it back in his pocket and pulled on his shirt and socks. Anger welled up in him, though he didn’t know exactly why. He wasn’t angry at Dean, he wasn’t angry at Ruby, he wasn’t angry at himself, not anymore, but there it was. Dirty, sour anger rising in his chest like acid. The bathroom seemed too small and narrow and he hastily exited. The room was still so dark Sam couldn’t really see, but he managed to find his wallet and shoes without waking Dean up. He was out of the door the next second.

Outside was cool and the air was crisp, and Sam took a few deep breaths. The anger was pressing on him and he almost choked with the force of it. He needed release, an outlet, a way to let go without hurting himself so bad he couldn’t be of service to Dean. No demon blood, no Ruby, none of that at all. Not after his latest trip to Bobby’s panic room. Even if Dean wasn’t ever going to forgive him, Sam wasn’t gonna give Dean more to hate him for. He needed to get drunk, Dean would approve of that.

He vaguely remembered a bar a few miles down the road, Dean pointing it out as they’d pulled into town with a smirk, saying he was gonna hit it to shake some money from the locals. He hadn’t; Dean had fallen into bed and asleep the minute they’d gotten to the room, so Sam headed for it now. Just what he needed; a small-town bar where no one knew who he was and had no reason to hate him.

Flashes of his nightmare came back to him as he walked on the side of the road towards the bar. His eyes going black, Dean stabbing him in the heart, Bobby sinking his teeth in his neck and sucking him dry. Lucifer yelling at him, Dean whispering death threats in his ear, his limbs falling off one by one. All set to the background of Dean telling him he was _a monster, a vampire, a blood-sucking freak_.

_I am done saving you_

It had been months since Dean threw away the amulet and Sam’s heart, and even longer since the voicemail message, but Sam couldn’t let it go. It was always there, in the back of his mind, whispering in his ear every time he thought he might be close to getting back in Dean’s good graces. They hadn’t talked about it, about any of it, and, for once, Sam was glad to sweep it under the rug with everything else they pretended wasn’t there. Somehow, the amulet and the voicemail kept on haunting him, and he was done. He couldn’t keep it up anymore, he needed to get out of his head for a while.

The bar was open, a big neon sign advertising 24/7 opening hours, and Sam checked his wallet for cash. He had a few ten-dollar bills, and he figured it would be enough for a whiskey or ten. It wasn’t very crowded, which was just the way Sam liked it. He could just sit at the bar and drink, without getting bumped into and jostled around constantly. He chose a seat at the far end of the bar, with his back to the wall so he could keep an eye on both the other people inside. No matter what his state of mind was, he wasn’t stupid enough to let his guard down. And he needed the bartender’s attention so the drinks kept on coming.

He ordered a whiskey and downed it in one go. The guy behind the bar – Dave, his nametage said - looked on amused as Sam slammed down the glass and gestured for him to pour another.

“Make it double and keep them coming.”

Dave raised an eyebrow and it reminded Sam so much of Dean, he had to look away.

“You got the cash on you?”

Sam took the bills from his pocket and threw them on the bar. Dave quickly counted them before nodding and pouring Sam’s drink. Sam folded himself onto the small barstool and planted his elbow on the dirty wood. The double shot went down just as smoothly as the first and so did the third. By the time Dave told Sam he was out of money, Sam was more than pleasantly buzzed and well on his way to drunk. Everything around him was a blur, people talking, drinking, playing darts and pool, he didn’t care.

He emptied his last glass and slowly stood up on wobbly legs. The bartender smirked at him and Sam scowled.

“‘m fine, shut up.”

Dave raised his hands in a defensive manner and laughed.

“Hey man, if you say so. You got a way home?”

Sam snorted; it was the most concern anyone had showed him for weeks, stint in the panic room included. And it came from a fucking stranger who was getting paid to keep customers drinking.

“Yeah, my legs.”

“Good. Just don’t step in front of a car, okay?”

For one second, the image of getting hit by a car and dying right there on the side of some dusty b-road in the middle of nowhere flashed through Sam’s head, followed by the thought it wouldn’t be that bad and he wouldn’t be missed anyway.

“Sure thing.”

Fuck, getting drunk only made things worse. Not that that was a particular surprise, Dean was never a better person after polishing off a bottle of scotch, but Sam hadn’t expected the wave of sadness, regret, and flat out loneliness that washed over him as he stood there, making promises to a bartender not to kill himself with the oncoming traffic.

He was a pathetic piece of human being.

Once he made his way outside and decided on the right direction back to the motel, he fished the amulet back out of his pocket. The small face seemed to be grinning manically at him and the urge to throw it away as far as he could swept over Sam. He didn’t; he couldn’t. He wasn’t like Dean, he couldn’t just throw away what they had, no matter how bad the situation got. He loved Dean, and all he wanted was a fucking chance to make it right.

He kept a tight hold on the amulet as he staggered back towards their motel. He tripped over his own feet a few times and realized he was probably more drunk than he’d originally thought. His vision blurred and his stomach cramped with too much alcohol and not enough food to absorb it. The walk back took much longer than the walk to the bar and, by the time Sam made it back, the sun had started coming up over the trees in the distance. He fumbled with the doorknob, sure he hadn’t lock it, but he couldn’t get it open. With a sigh, he leaned his head against the door and slumped.

And then everything swayed forward and he was falling.

******

Dean was startled from his sleep by a thump on the door to their room. Sam’s bed was empty, although it was slept in at some point, and the shower wasn’t running. Panic surged through him for a brief moment, until he remembered the thump and got up to investigate. He cocked his gun and pointed it at the door, before slowly opening it an inch to see who was on the other side. He wasn’t prepared for the weight of his little brother’s slumped figure to force the door open and said little brother to tilt forward into his arms.

“Sam!”

He managed to catch Sam before he face-planted onto the floor - barely - and drag him back up. Sam was swaying on his feet, the stench of alcohol and smoke clinging to him like a dirty cloak, and Dean immediately knew something was up. Dean put his gun aside, hauled Sam to the bed and kneeled in front of him, holding up Sam’s head so he could look him in the eyes. Sam groaned with the movement, closed his eyes, and tried to pull his face from between Dean’s hands with an annoyed whine.

“Lemme go, Dean.”

“No, let me look at you.”

Dean fought him so he could look Sam over from head to toe without Sam falling over, and when he had made sure Sam was fine, except for the obvious levels of alcohol in his system, Dean rose to his feet and let Sam go in favor of venting his anger.

“Have you lost your mind, Sam? Getting drunk when we’re in the middle of the freaking apocalypse? We’re **this-close** to finding the last horsemen and shoving Lucifer back in his cage, and you get drunk? What were you thinking?”

Sam merely snorted, and let himself fall backwards on the bed.

“Right, Lucifer.”

“What does that mean? Yes, of course, Lucifer! Lucifer, Michael, the whole goddamn heaven and hell douchebag squad! What, that all just slipped your mind for a second there?”

Sam shrugged at that and the anger flared up in Dean again. They were so close, so goddamn close to the solution to all of their problems; demons, angels, hell, heaven, all of it. And Sam decided to go out and drown himself in whiskey and cheap beer?

“Damnit Sam, you can’t do this! You can’t just go out and get drunk, not when we have the solution to finally putting an end to all of this and get on with our lives at our fingertips!”

Sam snorted again before turning on his side and seemingly settling to go to sleep. He mumbled something unintelligible, and Dean growled with anger and frustration.

“Fucking Christ, Sam!”

He roughly manhandled Sam back onto his back and slapped his cheeks a few times until Sam shoved him away and sat up. Maybe not the most subtle, but it got Dean what he wanted; Sam with his eyes open and his drunken focus on Dean.

“What. Were. You. Thinking?”

Dean forced the words out as calmly as he could, but the reality was, he was steaming on the inside. He knew Sam was shaken up about Brady, and while he didn’t know what exactly had happened, he knew it wasn’t good. Sam didn’t want to talk about it though, and that should have been Dean’s first clue. Sam not wanting to talk about things was a sure sign there was something to talk about. And then Sam went out and got drunk when they were about ten seconds away from either ending the world or ending the ending of the world?

“Talk. Now.”

Sam’s eyes darted away from Dean’s face and he suddenly looked so sad, Dean felt all the anger dissipate from him. Something was definitely bothering Sam, and it hurt to realize he didn’t feel like he could talk to Dean about it. Dean was well aware of the tension between them, that had been there for a very long time, but he thought they were at least getting back to being a team again, brothers in arms if not actual brothers again.

But apparently Sam didn’t think so. Sam shrugged and looked down at his hands where they were absentmindedly playing with the hem of his jacket.

“You wouldn’t care.”

It was mumbled, but clear enough for Dean to hear, and it confused him.

“What? Why wouldn’t I care?”

He honestly didn’t have a clue what Sam could be talking about. They were brothers, had died for each other more than once, he went to hell for Sam, damn it! How on earth could he think Dean didn’t care about him?

But Sam shrugged again, like it was no big deal, and didn’t answer. Dean was about to explode into anger again, when Sam struggled to his feet and wobbled his way over to the mini bar. He nearly toppled over when he bent down to grab a small bottle of scotch, but he caught himself on the door of the fridge before unscrewing the cap and downing the drink in one swallow.

“Hey, we don’t have money for that! Sam!”

Sam ignored him, though, and just staggered back to the bed. When he was in front of Dean, he fixed his glassy, tired eyes on Dean and smiled sadly.

“It’s gonna be over soon anyway, Dean, and then you won’t have to deal with me anymore.”

It sounded ominous and dangerously depressed, and Dean had no idea what to do with it. He hadn’t stopped feeling off-kilter since Sam had slumped into his arms, and with everything Sam did and said, it felt like he took another three spins on a merry-go-round.

“What does that mean, Sam? What on earth is going on with you? Are you going to do something stupid? Lucifer-stupid?”

Sam flopped down on the bed with a grim chuckle, and peered up at Dean through heavy eyelids.

“Sure, because that’s the only thing I could be getting drunk over now, can’t it?”

The bite in Sam’s tone surprised Dean and he was temporarily taken aback. Sam looked like he regretted saying it too, his eyes big with shock and he jerked up from the bed.

“I’m gonna be sick.”

The dash to the bathroom was frantic, and Dean barely managed to wedge his foot between the door as Sam slammed it shut. Sam was already hunched over the toilet, throwing up the motel scotch and whatever he’d had at the bar. If it had been an excuse to get away from Dean, it wouldn’t have been the first one; Sam hadn’t been himself in ages, and ever since the whole fucker of a thing with that Brady guy, Sam had shut down completely. Excuse or not, Sam was puking his guts out, but Dean wasn’t going to let him off now. He knew he’d feel bad about taking advantage of Sam when he was drunk, and a drunk Sam was a chatty Sam, but right now they needed to clear the air between them if they were going to succeed and survive.

When Sam shifted back from the toilet bowl to slump against the side of the bathtub, Dean settled on the floor in the door opening. He stared at Sam silently, until Sam couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“Apart from your ridiculous plan to shove the devil back in the hole.”

Dean had hoped for at least a weak grin, but Sam instead looked sadder when he said, “At least it’ll all be over then. You’ll be rid of me.”

Dean was kind of getting tired of apparently being accused of something without knowing what or why, and he was sick of Sam’s riddles. Either Sam was talking now or he could do it tomorrow when he would have to do it with a raging hangover, but he was talking. Dean was at the end of his patience.

“Wanna explain that?”

Sam stayed silent for a long time, so long Dean was about to get up and leave for the bar himself so he wouldn’t grab Sam and try to shake some sense into him, when he sighed deeply and let his head fall back against the tub. His eyes slipped shut, but Dean knew he wasn’t falling asleep. Whenever Sam was drunk, he could only focus on one thing at a time; in this case, talking.

“I know you haven’t trusted me in a long time. I know you think I’m a freak, and I know you don’t care anymore. And I can’t blame you. I **was** a blood-sucking freak, you were right saying that! I did bad things, really bad things, and you **should** stop trying to save me! You were right all along. I’m nothing but a monster, a freak, a vampire, even if I don’t-”

Dean stared at Sam open-mouthed. When the hell did he stumble and fall into Wonderland? He didn’t remember ever calling Sam a freak, much less a blood-sucking one. He always hated it when Sam called himself a freak, so why would he do that to him? And what was that shit about stop trying to save Sam? He would always, fucking **always** try to save Sam if there was even the flimsiest chance he could.

When Sam cut himself off and stopped talking, Dean was at a loss of how to respond. He wanted to say everything that he was thinking, but he doubted Sam would believe him. Whenever Sam got something in his head, you would have to come with some really good, solid evidence to the contrary to convince him otherwise, and Dean didn’t have any right now. It occurred to him Sam would have made a fantastic lawyer. The only thing he could come up with was the biggest question of them all.

“What the hell are you talking about Sam? Where did you get all of this horseshit?”

Sam chuckled grimly and opened his eyes to fix them on Dean. There was fire behind the alcohol, and Dean knew it ran deeper than just something Dean had supposedly said.

“From you! Horseshit straight from the horse’s mouth! You said it all, Dean, loud and clear. I don’t even need to hear the message to remember the exact words; they’re etched into my brain forever. My own brother, practically disowning me and declaring me an enemy. Who would forget something like that?”

“What? What message?”

Sam laughed at that, shockingly enough, and Dean was well and truly lost.

“That’s golden, Dean! What message? Like you really don’t remember calling me a blood-sucking vampire.”

He started thrashing around on the floor, digging into his jeans pocket to pull out his phone. He pressed a few buttons and held out the phone to Dean to listen, but it wasn’t the phone that Dean was surprised to see.

Looped around one of Sam’s fingers, was the amulet. His amulet. The one he’d thrown away after God had deserted them, when all hope had abandoned them and he couldn’t see a way out anymore.

The amulet Sam had given him all those years ago.

Shit.

******

Fuck.

Dean’s eyes flicked between Sam and the amulet slowly swinging from his hand, shock and surprise swimming in them. Sam would do anything to undo the last thirty seconds or so - maybe the last five years would be even better - but he knew there was no going back. The amulet was out, everything was out, and he owed Dean an explanation.

If only he had one.

“Sammy?”

The nickname sent a spike of ice through Sam’s heart and he shook his head.

“No. No, you don’t get to call me that anymore. Not when you’re gonna leave. Not-”

And there he went again, his mouth running away from him as if it had been waiting for Sam’s brain to let go and give it the freedom to let Dean in on his insecurities and hurt. Always with the damn talking; Sam wished he could shut that part of his personality off for just one fucking moment, so he could stop the bloody apocalypse with Dean and then try and pick up his life without painful conversations and regretful words between them. Say goodbye properly before they went their separate ways instead of screaming words and slamming doors like last time.

“What? How- Where did you get that?”

Dean’s voice shook; Sam couldn’t tell what emotion accompanied it, but he didn’t imagine it boded well for him. Nothing did lately. There was no use in lying now.

“I took it out of the trash can after you left.”

Dean’s eyes lifted from the amulet and met Sam’s over the phone still hanging between them.

“Why?”

Sam knew it was the alcohol talking, but he didn’t have any more excuses in him.

“Because I gave it to you and you threw me out with it. I couldn’t handle that. I figured when you left for good, at least I’d still have that.”

It didn’t make much sense to his own ears, but the essentials were in there. Dean seemed to get it though; realization dawning in his eyes, one and one finally adding up to two.

“You think I am going to leave you as soon as this is all over.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

Dean looked at him as if he was crazy, but Sam was the one with all the proof. The voicemail message, the discarded amulet, all the times Dean locked him in the panic room at Bobby’s.

“No. Why would you think that?”

Sam snorted.

“Really? After everything, you’re asking me why?”

“Yes! I have no idea what message you are talking about, or why you think I hate you, or what made you think I don’t care about you!”

In answer, Sam pressed play on his phone.

_Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam -- a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back._

******

It was his voice, but he didn’t remember ever saying those words. It was him, but it wasn’t **him**. A flash of panic surged through his body when he realized he would never be able to convince Sam of this though. It didn’t matter who put that message on Sam’s phone, he would never believe Dean if Dean tried to convince him otherwise. This was Sam’s truth, and Dean didn’t have any proof that it was anything but the truth.

He knew that better than anyone.

Sam clicked off the phone and tossed it to the side, slumping back against the tub with a sigh. His eyes slipped shut, and Dean desperately thought of something to say, some way to make Sam see he would stand beside him until the end of days, no matter what he would do or say, but nothing came to mind that wouldn’t only strengthen Sam’s belief in Dean’s exit plan.

As Sam slipped into sleep, Dean shifted in his spot on the floor to get a little more comfortable. He would somehow make Sam understand how much he meant to Dean, that Dean would still die for him in a heartbeat, even if it took the rest of his life to do so. And if he needed to start with sitting on a cold bathroom floor, watching him sleep the drunken man’s sleep to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit, then that’s what he would do.

And, tomorrow, he would tell Sam to hang on to the amulet for him, because he trusted no one else to keep it safe.


End file.
